Harry Potter and the Fatal Fury
by wildcatman
Summary: a stry of the last fight between Voldemrt and Harry


**Chapter 1 – Oh, to reminisce!**

Gilberto Heel paused as he rounded the corner of Knockturn Alley. He wanted to ensure that there was, as he was already sure, nobody following him. He tilted back his head and breathed deeply of the familiar odors, which lay heavily upon the air and, with a half-smile on his lips, he cast his eyes over the welcome diversions that such a…_unique_ place might offer one such as him.

The muted colors of Knockturn Alley contrasted nicely; he mused, with the garish shop fronts of that other, lesser alley. Peopled by the decadent popinjays that tolerated Muggles, half-breeds and other sundry enemies of the Dark Lord, Diagon Alley would soon be brought to _heel_. His lip curled as he both savoured this old family quip and imagined the wailing of those who would become the underclass, those whose only purpose was to serve the Few, the Faithful … _the Death Eaters_.

Ron blew out his cheeks and let out a deep sigh, but his look of boredom served no other purpose than to raise Hermione's eyebrows. She knew that, like all boys, Ron was hiding his true feelings. For the truth was they were both worried by the fact that the too-thin boy with the dark hair and glasses was sick with worry. And apart from their poorly-hidden feelings for one another, they loved Harry Potter above all other things.

"I'm starving!" whispered Ron hoarsely, "d'you reckon he'll be finished soon?"

Hermione stared at Ron and was about to arch her eyebrows, as if to say that had been a silly question. She stopped herself, though, as she had resolved recently to argue less with Ron. This was certainly not due to the fact, as Ginny kept gently insisting, that she, _Hermione Granger_, had feelings for _Ronald Weasley_. No, no, no; the very idea was ludicrous. It just seemed that Ron had an increased capacity for irritating her lately, no matter how hard she tried not to let him.

Instead, she merely put her finger to her lips, indicating that he should remain silent. But then, to her surprise, her hand seemed to take on a life of its own for it reached over and smoothed some of the flaming red hair back out of his eyes. Both Ron and Hermione looked at one another, eyes wide with shock. It was Ron who, blushing purple and in looking away first, failed to see Hermione's own reddening face and tiny smile of triumph. Ron quickly glanced back at Hermione with a confused look. He seemed to be on the point of speaking but instead contented himself with trying to give the appearance that he was totally cool with what had just happened; to act as if it had been nothing more significant than Hermione handing him a quill in class.

Harry, meanwhile, was single-handedly trying to denude the desolate moor of its wiry grass with his left hand. His other hand was slowly kneading at the muscles of his neck, trying to work out some of the tension that had come to nest there since the death of Albus Dumbledore.

As he looked out across the grasses which were dancing under the languid hand of the summer breezes, and squinted up at the scudding grey clouds, he pondered the questio which had come to haunt him every hour of every day: where now might he turn for advice? To Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor in a school to which, one way or another, he would never return? Perhaps to the peripatetic Remus Lupin, last of the Marauders save for the traitor Peter Pettigrew? To Mr & Mrs Weasley, then; the adults for whom he felt more affection than any others?

Like Ron, Harry blew out his cheeks and let out a deep, tense breath. No, he concluded, there would be no one to replace Dumbledore; there would be no one to help him in the coming trials. Instead, he would have to rely on the two people squatting behind him - the very two people he loved most in the world and would most like to keep out of harm's way.

He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. Hermione was blooming into womanhood and would soon be a more confident witch than she was now. Gone would be her self doubts and in their place would be truly wonderful person. As she threw off the mantle of childhood, shw was beginning to turn heads wherever she went. Of course, Hermione being Hermione, she was completely unaware of this. Harry flashed a quick, tight grin as he looked at Ron, who was in turn looking at Hermione. The look in Ron's eyes, Harry thought, was probably very similar to the look in his own eyes when he gazed upon Ginny. Ron was tall and lanky and, in Harry's opinion at least, in serious need of a hair cut. Despite this, he mused, Ron seemed to be more attractive to the opposite sex with each passing week. If only they'd both say to each other what was in their hearts instead of being so…

With this bittersweet thought left unfinished, he stood up and brushed off his hands, ridding them of the brittle yellow grass of the moor.

"Ready mate?" asked Ron.

Harry looked at them both and took a couple of deep breaths to calm the hot, prickly feeling in his eyes that he seemed to be plagued with these days.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm ready."

With this there were three near-simultaneous cracks as they disapparated. Behind them, they left nothing but a few crows, pecking forlornly in the clumps of grass in search of their next meal.

Heel steeled himself as he prepared to enter Borgin and Burkes. The blandishments and petty trinkets of other, lowlier shops held no appeal for him. Only in the musty depths of an establishment such as this would a true connoisseur find something of value. As he smoothed the fringe of his grey pudding-bowl haircut, he reflected on the irony of sourcing a Muggle item from Borgin and Burkes, for long had these two names been linked, and not without reason, to the hidden market for _dark_ artefacts.

As he approached the premises, notable only for how unremarkable they were considering the nature of what lay within, Heel tried to still his pounding heart. For if it was seen just how eager he was to procure the item…well, suffice it to say that the price might well be raised well out of the reach of his meagre resources. Heel would not allow that. Heel would do anything to procure this item and lay it at the feet of the Dark Lord: the item which quite simply could not fail to put an end to Harry Potter once and for all.

Ron looked into the mirror and ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair. It irritated him, truth is told, but he thought that Hermione - that _she_ - liked it, and was therefore determined to keep it that way. Fred and George, ever ready to tease their younger brother, had enchanted a pair of scissors to chase after Ron the last time they had visited Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Ron had nearly punched Fred, but at the sight of Hermione doubled over with laughter he had almost forgiven his brothers.

"Ronald Weasley," shrieked Mrs Weasley from the kitchen, "if you're not down here in five minutes I shall tell Fred and George exactly what it is you're doing up there!"

"Below-the-belt, Mum" muttered Ron.

He shuddered at the thought of those two bursting in on him when he was shaving, not that it would be the first time that they had targeted him for some ill-deserved ribbing. Ever since he had started to shave and take more care of his hair, his brothers had scented blood. They knew that their brother - little Ronnikins - was finally interested in girls. Had they known that Ron was in fact interested in a particular girl, well…his life simply wouldn't have been worth living.

He sighed, pointed his wand at his chin and muttered, _"Spumas."_ Thick foam sputtered from the end to cover his lower face from ear to ear. He didn't really need to shave, having just done so a couple of days ago, but what with it being Bill and Fleur's special day tomorrow and all... He shook his head and concentrated on the task at hand.

Ron was the first to admit that he was confused. Much to his chagrin, life was more complicated these days. Despite the fact that he had always been sensitive about his family's relative poverty, he had always been happy. Apart from Percy, he had a very good relationship with his siblings and although he had second or even third-hand robes, books and wands, he was happy enough.

He'd seen enough of the world to realise that not everybody had it as good as he did. Alright, his mum was prone to nagging sometimes - well, often - and Percy was a first-class prat, but apart from that life was good. There was plenty of food at home and not too many chores to do with so many wands around. Ron grinned as he remembered Hermione insisting that,

_"Many hands make light work, Ron"_, with her hands on her hips and an indignant look on her face, as he tried to skive off washing the dishes after tea.

He often forgot that Hermione came from a Muggle family, but when she used sayings like that one, it was all-too-easy to remember. A pure-blood would say,

_"Many wands make light work"_.

Ron's grin faded as he realised he was thinking about Hermione again. Frowning, he picked up the cut-throat razor and concentrated on the task at hand.

As his gloved hand closed on the ornate, tarnished bronze handle of Borgin and Burkes, Heel felt a shiver of anticipation. He drew a final breath and listened as the black leather which clad his hand creaked as he gently squeezed the latch below his thumb. The well-oiled hinges allowed him to enter the shop and close the door both quickly and silently. He stood there with his back pressed firmly against the door, while what seemed like minutes passed by.

His eyes flicked restlessly back and forth, seeking his quarry for this day. To his left lay glass display cabinets, the type of which was so common in museums around the world. Although they were old, the glass was clean and the wood well polished. Somebody obviously cared for the grotesque curios displayed inside this shop.

To his right, Heel could see a fascinating range of furniture. All of it was in perfect repair, but so black that the casual observer might take it to be fire damaged. Every and every piece had been lovingly carved with complicated images of battles from the long history of Dark Magic.

The premises were obviously sizeable and Heel could not quite make out all of the areas and their contents. However, he could distinguish a number of bookcases, some with open shelves and others securely locked, beyond the glass cases that were immediately to his left. His obsession with the Muggle artefact suddenly remembered, Heel nervously licked his lips and began moving in that direction, for surely there he would find that on which so much depended.

In his anticipation, he touched the fingertips of his left hand to his heart as his right hand extended towards the bookcases: towards his destiny.


End file.
